Reflecting on the past brings comfort through cherished memories. Each recollection serves as a window to earlier times, particularly on rainy days when revisiting these moments feels soothing. Among the most delightful memories are Sundays spent with family, filled with laughter, delicious food, and cherished traditions.
The Sunday morning hustle
Our Sundays often began with my father’s enthusiastic call, inviting us to earn a shiny sixpence. In a bustling household of seven children, someone was always eager to dash to the local shop for morning newspapers. As the youngest sibling, my opportunities were rare, but when I had the chance, I eagerly anticipated spending my sixpence on a Caramac chocolate bar. It was a sweet treat, often consumed halfway home, with just enough left to share with my siblings.
The aroma of Sunday roast
Our home would soon fill with the mouthwatering scent of Sunday roast. My mother began her culinary preparations shortly after breakfast, and I still remember the heavenly aroma wafting through the house. My favorite was the roast lamb, and I often marveled at my mother’s ability to create such a magnificent feast despite our modest means. The table overflowed with roast potatoes, creamy mash, vibrant cabbage, sweet peas, tender carrots, fluffy Yorkshire pudding, and, of course, the centerpiece roast. No matter how hard I try, I have yet to recreate that signature smell that filled our home.
Once the meal was ready, we were all called in from play, ensuring we arrived just in time for dinner. The thought of missing out on the feast was unthinkable, as no one wanted to settle for leftovers.
Evenings filled with games and debates
After dinner, our family would gather in the cozy sitting room, where the warmth of the crackling fire created an inviting atmosphere. My father, a coal merchant, ensured we always had a roaring fire, making winter evenings particularly special. We engaged in various games such as Snakes and Ladders, chess, and card games, while lively debates filled the air. As the youngest, my opinions often seemed insignificant, yet I absorbed invaluable lessons from my siblings and learned to express myself amidst the delightful chaos.
The delightful spread of Sunday afternoon tea
Though we may not have had much in terms of wealth, our Sunday afternoon tea was nothing short of spectacular. My mother took a backseat during this occasion, allowing us children to take the lead. The table was adorned with an assortment of sandwiches, two Swiss rolls (one chocolate and one filled with jam), a creamy trifle, rich fruit cake, angel cake, tinned fruit, and a pitcher of custard. Homemade bread and an array of fish dishes completed the feast.
My sister and I, being the youngest, were often rewarded with a penny for assisting in making winkle sandwiches or peeling prawns for our father. This small payment felt like a fortune, allowing us to buy a penny bun on our way to school the following day.
Endings and dreams
After a fulfilling day, we would be bathed, our hair washed, and settled in front of the fire, feeling fresh and fragrant from the medicated shampoo. If we were fortunate, there would be just enough milk for a cup of Ovaltine or cocoa before heading off to bed. Our parents reminded us to read for only half an hour before lights out.
Winters were particularly chilly, as central heating was a luxury we couldn’t afford. The single-glazed windows often displayed intricate frost patterns that captivated my imagination. Frequently, my father placed a brick wrapped in a towel in our beds, warmed in the oven above the fire, providing much-needed comfort.
As I drifted off to sleep, the comforting murmur of family conversations downstairs filled the air. My dreams would be filled with the adventures of our day, exploring remnants of bomb sites in London, blissfully unaware of the dangers surrounding us. I feel incredibly fortunate to have such rich and vivid memories.
Our Sundays often began with my father’s enthusiastic call, inviting us to earn a shiny sixpence. In a bustling household of seven children, someone was always eager to dash to the local shop for morning newspapers. As the youngest sibling, my opportunities were rare, but when I had the chance, I eagerly anticipated spending my sixpence on a Caramac chocolate bar. It was a sweet treat, often consumed halfway home, with just enough left to share with my siblings.0
